Fall From Grace
by Jerusha ferch Rhys
Summary: An aged Duke of Corwyn is seriously ill with fever and is visited by the people most important in his life.
1. Chapter 1

Part 1 - Richenda

_Duke of Corwyn's Apartments_

_Rhemuth Castle_

_November 13, 1143_

Richenda de Morgan, Duchess of Corwyn, looked out of the window at the grey morning sky. Master Randolph had suggested they open the window to let in some of the colder morning air to cool the bedchamber down a bit. She had chosen to tend to the task herself, needing to rise and move from the chair at her husband's bedside where she had spent much of the night.

Master Randolph had knocked quietly at the chamber door just after Lauds. He had arrived in Rhemuth yesterday, not content to remain in Coroth after word had reached him of Duke Alaric's illness. Richenda had sent the letter herself in hope that her husband's surgeon could do something more than the king's personal physician had been able to do.

The first thing the senior surgeon had done was to order the removal of the leeches that had been applied to bleed her husband. Richenda had only agreed to them as a last resort when Alaric's fever had not abated after three days, and the king's physician pleaded with her to be allowed to apply them to try to restore the balance of the humours and reduce the fever. The bleeding had done nothing and Alaric remained restless, confined to bed, slipping in and out of a semi-delirious state as the fever raged.

At a nod from Master Randolph, Richenda closed the casement and returned to stand by the bed. The light sheet that covered Morgan was damp with sweat, and his short-cropped hair was plastered to his forehead. He was in need of a shave; normally he would not have allowed more than a day's growth to linger on his face. Except for when she had first seen him, bearded and wearing humble clothing, pushing her carriage out of the mud. In spite of his appearance, he had not seemed at all humble, and his smile had made her heart leap, even though she was wife to another man.

Lightly she touched his shoulder, feeling the welt where one of the leeches had been attached. Alaric wore his fifty-two years well. He was still lean and fit, not as scarred as some noble knights given his ability to Heal his own wounds. Even so, there had not been many wounds; his prowess at arms was as respected now as in his younger years, and only a rare, misguided few sought to test him.

Richenda sighed at that thought and then turned her gaze to his face. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and the laugh lines around his mouth had deepened, but he had lost none of his ability to turn the heads of the young ladies at court. The grey in his golden hair was hard to see, instead seeming to frost it in the sunlight, or by firelight. She had teased him about it, one evening not too long ago, and he had saucily reminded her that the frost on the roof did not diminish the heat from the hearth inside. It had been such a wonderful night...

She felt her face warm at the memory of it and hoped Master Randolph hadn't noticed. He was carefully adding a measure of coriander into a cup of cool wine, but she thought she detected the trace of a smile on his face.

"I so love your hair."

Startled, Richenda realized that Alaric had wakened while her thoughts were turned elsewhere. He was looking up at her with fever-bright, grey eyes as he reached for a strand of her hair and brought it to his lips.

"Alaric!" Richenda sat down on the bed beside him and grasped the hand that still held her hair. "How are you feeling, my love?"

"I have felt…better," he replied slowly, his voice sounding dry and cracked. Richenda leaned forward and kissed his forehead.

"Drink some of this," Master Randolph said, propping the duke's head and neck gently while he brought the cup to his lord's lips to drink.

"What's in it?" Alaric Morgan wrinkled his nose suspiciously. He had never been the best of patients.

"Just a little something to bring down the fever. Be a good Duke and take your medicine as instructed." Randolph had been Morgan's surgeon for most of the duke's life and knew how to handle his patient. Morgan took several sips then pushed the cup away. Satisfied, Master Randolph set the cup aside. "You will have some more a little later."

He turned to Richenda and said gently, "I'm going to arrange for a cool bath for His Grace and have the bedding changed. Stay with him until I return, and try to get him to drink some more of the wine. When I return, I want you to go and get some rest." He raised a hand to cut off her protest before it could begin. "You are exhausted, and the last thing His Grace needs is for you to fall ill, too."

"You won't get sick," Morgan stated with surprising strength. "I won't allow it." He grasped her hand, his eyes beginning to show a look of concern. "You look tired."

"I'm fine, and don't you start to worry. I'll stay with you until Master Randolph returns, and then I'll get some rest."

"Very well, then." Morgan settled back into his pillow and grinned boyishly. "You can tell me a story."

"A story?" Richenda looked uncertainly at Master Randolph, who stopped with his hand on the door to push it open. He shook his head slightly and slipped out the door.

Outside, the bells began to ring for Terce.

###

"Jesu, it's hot!" Morgan thought as he tugged at his tunic's laces to open it further. "What was I thinking to come out hunting today?" He pushed his cap back from his brow; the long curling feather tickled his neck. Annoyed , he brushed it aside. The feather glistened red-gold in the sunlight. As he looked around, he realized everything seem to have a red-gold tinge to it. He thought it was odd, but it didn't trouble him much.

Still, he felt out of sorts. And hot – so blasted hot. He shaded his eyes from the brightness with his hand and looked around. The Lendour Mountains? He hadn't realized he had ridden that far. And hadn't he just come from here a week ago?

Although he wouldn't have thought it possible, Morgan felt an even warmer wind swirl behind him. And it stank! The air had a nasty, sulphurous smell to it. Morgan sniffed, suddenly hoping it wasn't himself that smelled like that. It would have taken him days to reach the Lendour Mountains from Rhemuth, and for the life of him he could not remember stopping anywhere along the way.

Morgan heard an amused chuckle behind him and turned, instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword.

"Not very observant today, are you, King's Champion?"

Morgan stopped and stared, his hand stilled on the hilt of his sword.

The creature before him was huge. The long, reptilian body was covered in red-gold scales. It stood on four legs and its tail was long enough to reach to the front legs and curl along the claws. It was the head that held his attention; huge eyes surrounded by bony eye ridges stared down at him, iridescent silver eyes that seemed to pull at his very soul. Puffs of smoke escaped from the wide nostrils, and the teeth in the wide mouth looked disturbingly sharp. His gaze was pulled away when the creature flapped the wings on its back, producing another swirl of acrid air and then folded them neatly.

It was a dragon.


	2. Chapter 2 - Duncan

Part 2 – Duncan

Duncan Howard McLain, Archbishop of Rhemuth, knocked quietly on the door and then pushed it open. Master Randolph finished adjusting the cool cloth he had applied to Morgan's forehead then straightened, drying his hands on another cloth before coming forward.

"Excellency," the surgeon murmured as he bowed and kissed the amethyst ring Duncan held forward.

Duncan nodded and gripped the older man's shoulder. "How is he, Ran? Is there any improvement?"

Randolph shook his head slowly. "I keep hoping the fever will break, but so far there are no signs of it. I've done about all I can. It's up to His Grace now, or perhaps God. "

Duncan managed a small smile. "I've been doing what I can from that perspective. I held a special Mass this morning, which was very well attended, by the way. I've spent quite some time in the St. Camber chapel as well, although the thought of a saint interceding on his behalf might make Alaric uncomfortable."

"Right now I'll take whatever intercession you can arrange." Master Randolph placed both hands on the small of his back, stretched, and was rewarded by a faint cracking sound. Straightening, he said, "I should check on Her Grace. Will you stay with him for a while?"

"Of course. I stopped to see Richenda on my way here."

"Do you know if she has eaten anything?"

"I think so. At least the remains of a meal were still on the side table. She and Grania were trying to distract themselves by embroidering feminine apparel. I thought it best not to look at it too closely." Duncan stopped, knowing that if Alaric had been awake, he would have made some sort of sardonic reply.

And he would have welcomed it! He would have welcomed any sarcastic response or none too gentle jesting; anything that would end the cool distance that had grown between them these last few months. He had meant to make an overture himself, to address the issue and talk it through. He was a priest, after all; he was supposed to be skilled at such things, able to understand people and guide them with wisdom.

He shook his head at his own folly. Archbishop of Rhemuth he might be, but this was Alaric; his strong-willed, self-confident cousin who did not easily concede any point of discussion, let alone a heated argument! Duncan had not intended for the "discussion" to become an argument, but one thing had led to another and Alaric had walked out of Duncan's study stiff-backed and unyielding.

Duncan sank down onto the chair beside the bed. Alaric looked uncomfortable, as if he was having an unpleasant dream. Duncan reached across and straightened the compress Master Randolph had placed on Alaric's forehead. It didn't really need adjusting, but it was at least something he could do.

Duncan sighed. He had never considered that Alaric's life could end this way. No! He would not believe it – not yet. Not as long as there was the slightest thread of hope to be grasped. Alaric would recover, and they would settle this uncomfortable estrangement. They had to; he would not accept anything else. Duncan slid from the chair to his knees beside the bed, folded his hands where they rested on top of his cousin's damp shoulder, and began to pray.

At the very edge of his concentration, he heard the bells begin to toll for Nones.

###

"What, exactly, are you doing here?" Morgan asked, looking up at the dragon and not releasing his grip on his sword's hilt.

"I could ask you the same question, Champion. You're not supposed to be here."

Small wisps of smoke escaped from the dragon's mouth as it spoke. Morgan wrinkled his nose at the smell, but it didn't seem as bothersome now. Perhaps he was getting used to it. He hoped not.

"How would you know where I'm supposed to be?" he countered.

"You should be sharing a glass of Old Ballymar scotch with your cousin," the Dragon said dryly. "But it seems you are not."

"Obviously not," Morgan replied curtly and scowled at the dragon. "Duncan and I are not particularly speaking at the moment."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Are you implying that it's mine?" Anger edged its way into Morgan's reply.

"Ah, we're a bit touchy, aren't we?" The dragon dipped its head closer to Morgan. "Now why would that be?"

Morgan squared his shoulders and stood his ground. Duncan had looked at him in much the same way, and he had resented it. "I do not take risks that could be avoided because I have the talent to Heal." He had said the same to Duncan. "I certainly don't treat the importance of another man's life casually because I might be able to save it, and I do not feel the need to prove anything to anybody!"

The dragon cocked its large head to one side. "But prove it you did. At least he didn't die."

"I volunteered to help immediately, but he refused," Morgan answered angrily. "Stupid, stubborn pride!"

"His, or yours?"

Morgan pushed strands of damp, blond hair back from his forehead. Damn impertinent dragon! It was as difficult to argue with as Duncan.

When Morgan didn't answer immediately, the dragon continued. "You could have walked away from it."

"I tried." Morgan saw the scene play out again in his mind, as he had too many times. The summer tournament had ended; nobles, knights and retainers milled about, some happy with the day's results, some not. Simon Sinclair, third son of a landed Marley knight, had unexpectedly thrown his gauntlet at Morgan's feet in challenge. Morgan had returned it on the point of his sword, suggesting the young man should reconsider. Sinclair had smirked, making a rude comment about not being a son with traitor's blood….

And that had been that. The fight had been short, starting and ending before anyone could intervene. Morgan's sword had ripped up and through Sinclair's sword arm from elbow to shoulder, cutting through muscle, tendon, and bone. He had followed as Sinclair was carried to the Sinclair pavilion, but his offer of assistance had been refused by both father and son. Duncan had offered assistance later, once the initial hot tempers had cooled, but was also refused. Simon Sinclair had lost his sword arm and Morgan had left the Earl of Marley, his step-son, with a problem to deal with.

"What else could I have done?" Morgan asked. "Turned my back and walked away, hoping young Sinclair had enough sense not to stick his dagger in it?"

"Perhaps you should ask your cousin." The dragon settled farther back on its haunches, lifting its foreleg to examine the bottom of its foot.

"I can't," Morgan replied uncertainly. "He's not speaking to me." He shifted his feet; the ground felt uncomfortably warm.

"Ask him anyway, Champion." The dragon looked down at Morgan through its sharp, upturned claws. "While you still have time."


	3. Chapter 3 - Kelric

Part 3 – Kelric

Archbishop Duncan McLain looked up from his folded hands at the sharp knock on the door. He sensed who it was and began to rise from his knees as the door opened.

The face was all too familiar. Golden hair cropped to a few short inches, grey eyes in an oval shaped face, wide mouth above a squared-off chin. The sideburns were only moderately long, though, and there was a silky blond moustache above the mouth.

"Kelric!" Duncan strode forward and barely allowed the younger man to finish a respectful bow before embracing him.

"Careful! " Kelric Alain Morgan returned the embrace. "I got most of the mud off, but the roads are terrible right now." He straightened and stood several inches taller than the man who was more a beloved uncle than a cousin. "The Council needs to allow us to build more Transfer Portals. "

"Complain to Denis Arilan," Duncan replied.

Kelric snorted. "A lot of good that will do." Bishop Denis Arilan was now one of the co-adjutants of the Camberian Council, and sparks flew when he and the elder Morgan crossed paths. "I don't see why they can't be a little flexible about the construction of a few more strategically placed Portals."

"You sound like your father." With one arm still around the shoulders of Morgan's son and heir, Duncan steered him toward the bed. "Did you ride straight in from Lendour?"

"I left within the hour of receiving Mother's message. Brendan may be here tomorrow, the next day at the latest."

Duncan gave Kelric a sharp look. "That's pretty fast travelling all the way from Marley."

"Mother's message was clear that we should get here as soon as possible." Kelric sat wearily in the chair beside the bed, looking closely at his father and feeling his stomach churn as he realized how grave the situation was.

"Did you stop to see your mother and sister?"

Kelric nodded. "Mother's scared, Uncle Duncan, in a way I've never seen before. "

"It's hard to prepare yourself for something like this; hard to not lose hope."

"I know I'm not prepared. I don't want this. Not yet." Kelric reached forward and gripped his father's damp hand. The hand that had helped him grip his first practice sword. His father's hand had seemed so much larger then, engulfing his smaller one.

Duncan squeezed the young man's shoulder. Kelric had turned eighteen this past summer and would be knighted at Twelfth Night court. Alaric wanted him knighted by the king, but Kelric preferred to have the accolade bestowed by his father. Duncan didn't know if the discussion had been settled yet; he hoped it would not be settled for them. He squeezed Kelric's shoulder once more and then turned to leave.

Kelric heard the door close as Duncan left. The last rays of the afternoon's sunlight filtered dimly through the leaded glass of the window, casting his shadow across his father's still form on the bed. The irony of it did not escape him. He had been in his father's shadow most of his life; was now the time he would finally step out of it?

The thought chilled him. Alaric Morgan had already been duke for four years when he had been knighted. He had campaigned with King Brion and survived the battle with the Marluk, defended the young King Kelson as Champion, and successfully defended Gwynedd against the Mearan pretender. The list went on.

Kelric sighed and let his thoughts continue to ramble on their own course. He was as able a swordsman as his father, maybe better. He had assumed responsibility for Lendour when he had come of age and both his county and his father seemed satisfied; at least no one had revolted yet. One day he would rule Corwyn. But he was certainly not yet the statesman his father had become, and he remained untested in battle. He could and would become Duke, but could he ever assume his father's role as a King's Champion?

He suddenly realized how quiet the room had become and tensed as he feared his father was gone. He relaxed when his father moaned softly and tried to pull his hand away from his son's.

"Stay, Father," Kelric said softly. "Please stay."

The last rays of sunlight turned red-gold as the cathedral bells began to toll Vespers.

###

"What are you smirking at?" Morgan looked askance at the dragon that had turned its head back to face him after examining one neatly folded wing. He released the hilt of his sword and wiped the sweaty palm of his hand on the front of his tunic.

"Smirk?" The dragon looked affronted. "A dragon does not smirk. I do, however, roar." The dragon rose backwards, arching its back as if to take a deep breath….

"Never mind!" Morgan hastily raised his arm with his hand palm outward to ward off whatever was about to transpire. "I'll trust your word on that matter," he said and then wondered if a dragon's word could be trusted. Or if the concept even existed for a dragon.

"Very well." The dragon settled down into a half-crouched position. "Tell me, Champion, how are your affairs?"

"My what?" Morgan's hand reached back towards the hilt of his sword.

The dragon raised one bony eye-socket, looking amused. "Your ducal affairs, your plans for succession. Unless there is something different you would care to expound on."

"I think not. And that, friend dragon, is a smirk."

"Do not take me to be a friend, Champion."

"You need have no fear on that account, nor do you need to have any concern for my affairs."

The dragon settled farther down onto the warm, dry earth. "Have you no concerns for the Corwyn succession?"

"No, I do not. I have done all I can to prepare Kelric to succeed me as duke," Morgan said, suddenly feeling the need to sit down. There was a boulder just a pace off to his right; he moved over and sat. The rock was warm and uncomfortable. He pushed damp strands of blond hair back from his forehead, hoping for a cooling breeze. The air remained still.

"A little warm?" the dragon asked. "Like the last time you sparred with Kelric?"

Morgan snorted. He remembered the last time he had crossed swords in training with his son. They had challenged each other for close to an hour, neither one willing to give ground and not quite able to gain the upper hand. "I wasn't this warm, though I gave the boy a good workout."

"Boy? He's eighteen."

"Aye, he's a man, and he worked me as hard as I worked him," Morgan conceded. There was pride in his voice and a touch of sadness. "There's not much more I can teach him."

"You think not?" The dragon turned the great head to look Morgan directly in the eye. "You think he's ready to take your place as advisor and Champion to King Kelson?"

Morgan pursed his lips and shook his head slowly. "No, not yet. I've done what I can to prepare him, but times are different now. We've been at peace for years; some opportunities just haven't been there."

"But when the opportunity was there, you kept him back." The dragon's gaze remained fixed on Morgan.

"I could not risk him. If I did not succeed, Gwynedd would need him more than I did." Morgan held the dragon's steady gaze. "Prince Javan will need him as friend and advisor. He'll be Javan's Champion when the time comes."

"And who will take your place until then?" the dragon asked.

"There are others," Morgan replied. "Dhugal or Rory could serve, or Angus McEwan." Morgan looked thoughtful, suddenly not quite so sure of his choices. "They are mostly away from Rhemuth, though Dhugal is at court as often as his duties allow. It would be difficult for Prince Rory, as Viceroy in Meara. Duke Graham is depending on Angus more and more in Claibourne…."

"You would have Kelric step into the role untried when Prince Javan needs him?" The dragon looked skeptical.

Morgan crossed his arms across his chest. "Kelric won't necessarily be untried by then," he scowled. "There may be some opportunities at hand."

"Perhaps your affairs are not as well-ordered as you thought, Champion. You should use what time you have left wisely."


	4. Chapter 4 - Grania and the King

Part 4 – Grania and the King

Kelric Morgan almost didn't hear the soft knock on the door as he sat dozing in the chair beside his father's bed. The door was opening as he sat up and turned to see who was there. It was his youngest sister who closed the door carefully behind her, red-gold curls cascading almost to her elbows. At fourteen, Grania de Morgan was blossoming into the image of her mother. She had the same cornflower blue eyes, the same slender, graceful build. She also had the Morgan presence and their father had teased her, saying he would keep her hidden in the Green Tower so he wouldn't be tormented by a steady stream of suitors. Grania had not thought it funny.

Grania glided over to the chair, wrapped her arms around her brother in a hug and laid her check against the top of his head. "I'm here to take you place for a while. Mummy says you should have something to eat and you should rest. Oh, and she mentioned a bath," she said.

"I bet she did," Kelric responded, beginning to disengage himself from her grip. "Have you heard anything from Briony?"

"She's worried sick, which makes Mummy worry even more. She wants to come, but Mummy doesn't think it's safe, not even by Portal. The baby's due practically any moment." Grania stepped back to allow Kelric to stand.

"I don't think Briony is going to take any chances with the birth of her first son, and I guarantee the Count isn't!" Kelric stretched to relieve cramped muscles. The chamber had grown colder once the sun had set. He walked over to the hearth and after a moment of concentration, flames licked at the logs.

"We don't want it too warm, Kel," Grania warned as she removed the compress from the pillow where it had fallen and soaked it in the basin of water beside the bed. "Has Father had anything to drink?"

"I got a little more of the medicine that Master Randolph left into him, but you should give him more if he wakes up. When he wakes up," Kelric corrected quickly.

"I'll try." Grania gently placed the cool compress across her father's hot forehead, smoothing the blond hair out of the way. His breathing was shallow and he lay quietly.

Kelric returned to the bedside, gripped Morgan's hand for a moment and then draped his arm around his sister's shoulders. "Send for me if there is any change."

Grania nodded, blinking back tears that threatened to spill down her checks. Kelric gave her a quick squeeze and quietly left the room.

Grania stared at the man on the bed, willing him to sit up and reassure her that everything would be fine, tease her that she would always be his little girl, and no one would ever be good enough to marry her. She smiled at the thought, for he had said almost the same to Briony. Briony had made a fine match to a handsome Count and heir to a Duke of Andelon. They had fallen passionately in love and their first child, a daughter, was born within their first year of marriage. Now their second child, a son, would soon be born.

"You will stay to meet your first grandson, won't you, Papa?" she asked softly.

She was answered by a firm knock on the door. She crossed the room and then curtseyed deeply as she opened the door.

Kelson Cinhil Rhys Anthony Haldane, King of Gwynedd, entered the chamber without asking permission. At thirty-six years of age he was entering the prime of his life and his reign. His raven hair, pulled back in a border braid, was greying at the temples, adding additional distinction to a man well-respected not only within his own realm, but throughout the Eleven Kingdoms.

His grey eyes were kind as he raised her up and grasped both of her hands between his own. "How is he, Grania?" he asked gently.

"He's sleeping, I think. At least I hope he still is, Sire." Tears welled up in her eyes again and Kelson released her hands to pull a handkerchief from his tunic sleeve and hand it to her. She smiled her thanks as he moved to stand beside the bed. She drifted over beside him, feeling comforted by his presence. He was her godfather, a duty he had gladly accepted when each of the Morgan children was baptised. He had become quite skilled over the years in indulging them in small but special ways.

"Would you like some time alone with him?" she asked, feeling the need somehow without him expressing it.

"Yes, I think I would like a moment or two. "

"I'll be just outside the door, Sire."

"Thank you, Pet," he replied, using the nickname Morgan had given her just after she had learned to walk and tried to follow him everywhere. She smiled up at him and left the room to wait outside.

Kelson sat down on the edge of the bed and crossed his arms across his chest, each hand gripping the opposite elbow. Morgan stirred restlessly, but did not open his eyes.

_"Can you hear me, Alaric?"_ Kelson sent, wondering if his life-long mentor could understand him better in Deryni mind-speech. _"This isn't fair, and you know it. I've just gotten you back."_

He waited for a long moment, hoping for a response, but none came. He reached out and grasped Morgan's forearm firmly, hoping the physical contact would help.

_"I need you to know that it weighed heavily on my conscience these last six months. I knew I was right and so did you, but I need you to know that it wasn't easy." _Kelson stopped, not knowing if Morgan had understood or not. Something around Morgan's neck caught the dim glow of the firelight. Kelson reached forward and touched a gold chain, then pulled it gently to release the object Morgan wore inside his damp shirt.

It was a _shiral_ crystal, framed between a golden gryphon on one side, its eye a small emerald, and a golden lion on the other, with a twinkling ruby eye. He had given it to Morgan a year ago, on the anniversary of his coronation as King, as a tribute to Morgan's service to the Crown.

The King of Gwynedd sat in silence, until the Cathedral bells began to toll Compline.

###

"I should be leaving," Morgan said, turning his head to gaze across the parched landscape.

"Returning to Rhemuth again?" the dragon asked mildly, rising to its feet and stretching its full length, front legs first and then the back ones.

Morgan waited to see if it would shake like a dog, but when the dragon did not, he answered. "Of course. Why would I not?"

"King Kelson banished you from Court for six months. He could have kept you away permanently."

"His Majesty did what he had to do. So did I." Morgan stood up from the rock he had been sitting on, thinking that his rear was uncomfortably warm. He placed one booted foot on the rock and then leaned forward toward the dragon, bracing his arms on his upraised leg. He waited for the dragon to continue.

"You risked much; the king's anger, and your own life."

"The choice was mine to make and it was the choice I had to make."

"His Majesty did not agree with you," the dragon stated, its eyes seeming to shimmer in the heat. "Teymuraz challenged him to the Dual Arcane, not you. You were only to deliver the demand, but instead you sent Derry with the wrong information."

Morgan shrugged his shoulders. "Kelson would have known I was lying. Derry told him what he believed to be the truth. I am the King's Champion and it was my duty to defend the King."

"Did you not think that Kelson could win?"

Morgan straightened and stood, hands on hips, looking defensive. "Kelson is very capable and yes, he could have won, if Teymuraz played fair. Teymuraz did not, and I did not expect him to."

The dragon nodded slightly. "Teymuraz underestimated you. I doubt that he would have accepted your substitution otherwise. "

"I was counting on that and the fact that he had prepared himself to face Kelson, not me."

"You almost lost."

"But I did not." Morgan remembered how close it had been. He had held his own, gradually gaining the upper hand, then Teymuraz had turned to darker magic and Morgan could not counter it. Not until the form that he had come to accept as Saint Camber had appeared within the warded circle and had given him the strength to focus one more spell, a spell that he had not consciously known a moment before. Teymuraz had died, and what the spell was he could not remember afterwards, no matter how hard he tried.

"King Kelson was left to fight another day," the dragon said. "He was not especially grateful."

Morgan snorted. "He was furious, which is actually an understatement."

"He sent you away."

"Aye, and he had no other choice. Whether he agreed with what I had done or not, he could not condone my actions. Publicly, the Duke of Corwyn required some sort of discipline."

"He sent you away," the dragon repeated, "to spend the summer season confined to your ducal capital of Coroth, not to return until Michaelmas."

"I was not confined," Morgan pointed out. "Restricted would be more accurate."

"Did you ever think how it would have affected Kelson, if you had died by Teymuraz's magic?" The dragon cocked its great head as it asked the question.

"Yes, I did consider it," Morgan replied quietly, "but I'm going to die sometime."

"Oh, quite likely you will, Champion. Quite likely indeed."


	5. Chapter 5 - The Dragon and Epilogue

Part 5 – The Dragon and Epilogue

"I really should be going," Morgan said. He and the dragon had been quiet for a while, the occasional puff of smoke issuing forth from the dragon's nose. It had been a companionable silence, if one could be companionable with a large, scaly creature.

"Do you think it's time, Champion?"

"I can't stay here forever," Morgan replied. "Besides," Morgan raised his arm to wipe his forehead on his tunic sleeve, "it's too damn hot!"

"Poor Champion!" The dragon looked beyond Morgan across the horizon. "My time here is also nearly finished."

Morgan followed the dragon's gaze. All he saw was parched grass extending in all directions into a distant, red haze.

"How do I leave this place? Do you know which way to go?" Morgan asked.

"Of course I know which way to go." The dragon looked down at Morgan. "The question is, do you?"

"Could you try being less enigmatic and a little more helpful?" Morgan asked, his grey eyes narrowing with annoyance.

"But I have been helpful, Champion." The dragon sounded aggrieved. "I've lead you down the paths you needed to travel. Where you go from here is up to you."

"If it was up to me, I would not have been here at all."

"But you are and by your own doing."

"I prefer things that way." Morgan looked around again, straightening to his full height and looking determined. "So I just … go?"

"If you are ready," the dragon replied. "Of course, there are still Iksander and Imre. Have you forgotten about them?"

"Teymuraz's twin sons; the heirs to his misfortune. No, I have not forgotten them. They are now of age, able to take up their father's cause and try to assert their rights to both Torenth and Gwynedd. They could each claim a kingdom, unless one gets greedy and wants it all. " Morgan paused and raised one blond eyebrow. "Of course, that would not be unusual for a Furstán."

The dragon rose and stretched out each wing, flexing them in the still, hot air. "Kelson should be able to handle them, of course. Claibourne and Cassan will stand behind him and for once he can count on Meara." The dragon looked down at Morgan. "Corwyn, on the other hand, will likely be the first target, if for no other reason than revenge. Will it hold?"

"They can target Corwyn, but it will hold and so will Gwynedd, as long as I have breath left to me!" Morgan's voice was sharp and determined.

"Only if you return, Champion." Suddenly the dragon sprang into the air, gradually gaining altitude with each long wing stroke.

"Wait!" Morgan called. "Which way do I go?"

"The way you always have," the dragon responded, turning lazily to drift above Morgan's head.

Morgan felt the need to stall for more time. "You know who I am, but I know only that you are a dragon. Do you have a name you are called by?"

"Of course I do." A powerful stroke of the dragon's wings swept dust across Morgan's boots as the dragon circled overhead again.

"Well then, what is it? Must I drag every bit of information from you?"

"It is _Airleas_!" With a sound that could have been a bark or a laugh, the dragon turned sharply toward the distant horizon, fading rapidly from Morgan's sight.

"What? You can't be!" Morgan called, but the dragon was gone.

Morgan shook his head in disbelief and turned toward the opposite direction. The red haze was giving way to a blue sky and a cool breeze ruffled his damp hair. He threw back his head and his arms, basking in the change in temperature.

"This must be the way." He straightened, and as he started walking forward, he clearly heard bells in the distance ringing Lauds.

###

Alaric Anthony Morgan, Duke of Corwyn, opened his eyes slowly. The chamber was dim; the first light of dawn was only beginning to filter through the window. He could see that the fire was nearly out. There was someone slumped in the chair that was pulled up beside the bed. Long, red-gold curls had fallen across the face, but he was sure he knew her.

"Richenda?" he rasped.

The girl on the chair awoke with a start, one hand sweeping her hair back from her face.

"Papa!" Grania cried, throwing herself from the chair and wrapping both arms around her father. "It's me! It's Grania! I'll go get Mummy right away!" She kissed him soundly on his forehead. "You wait right here!" She dashed across the room, nearly tripping over the chair leg, and flung open the door.

"I don't think I have much choice, Pet," Morgan said to the empty room. He experimentally moved arms, legs, feet, and fingers. Everything seemed to work the way it should. He rubbed his jaw, dismayed at the growth of beard. How long had he been here?

It had taken him days to return to Rhemuth from Lendour. The weather had been foul, with wind and rain the entire journey. He had caught a cold, but had stubbornly decided to ride alongside the king in a hunt the day after his return. They had landed a fine buck, but he was chilled and exhausted by the end of the day. He had been forced to miss the celebratory feast entirely, instead spending the evening sneezing and coughing in his rooms.

His memory was foggy after that. He thought he remembered a string of people passing in and out, intermingled with visions of a great beast that seemed to taunt him. That memory was already fading, slipping from his mind as the room brightened with returning daylight. He wasn't sure what had been a dream and what had been real.

The door suddenly opened wider and Richenda, a night robe hastily thrown over her chemise and her head uncovered, hastened into the room, followed by Kelric, who had not taken the time to throw on robe or slippers, but had grabbed up a dagger in his right hand. Within moments they were joined by Master Randolph and Grania.

"Alaric!" Richenda exclaimed as reached her husband's side. She immediately laid a hand to his forehead. "Master Randolph, I think his fever has broken!" She bent and hugged Morgan close, her long, red-gold braid falling forward against his cheek.

"If I might check his pulse, Your Grace?" Master Randolph asked, discreetly trying to disengage Morgan's arm from beneath her embrace.

"Oh yes, of course." Richenda drew back but held tightly on to Morgan's other hand.

Morgan looked beyond his wife to his son, who was clad only in his shirt with the dagger in his hand. "I see you came prepared. "

"If I remember correctly, you taught me that." Kelric grinned at his father, his relief evident on his face.

"I take it the news is good," another voice asked from the doorway before stepping inside.

"Your Majesty," Morgan said hastily, trying to rise from the bed but immediately restrained by his surgeon and his wife.

"Don't you dare try to get up, Alaric," Kelson admonished, entering the room but staying back from the crowded bedside. "We do not want to cause any delay in your recovery. He will recover, won't he, Master Randolph?"

Master Randolph bowed as he answered, "If he behaves himself, rests and at least attempts to do what he is told, I believe he will, Sire."

"Good. " Kelson looked down at Morgan with mock sternness. "Consider yourself so ordered. By me, personally."

"Yes, Sire," Morgan responded, feeling too weak to offer even a token objection, as a familiar figure entered the chamber.

"Praise be to God!" Duncan McLain stopped just inside the doorway, out of breath and catching himself on the door frame as he almost stumbled in his haste to enter. "I was afraid to believe the page who found me, for fear that he had the message wrong." He had been on his way to the Cathedral to prepare for the morning's Mass when the young page had intercepted him. The Archbishop of Rhemuth hadn't run so fast in years, charging back toward the castle.

Morgan leaned back against the pillow, protesting that he would be fine. King and Archbishop left to attend to other duties, promising to check back and make sure he was behaving. Richenda and Grania fussed, plumping his pillow, straightening the sheets and preparing to feed him a nutritious broth. Kelric stirred up the fire and borrowed his father's robe before returning to his own room.

Throughout it all, the Duke of Corwyn made minimal protests and was content to be looked after, at least for now.

Epilogue

_Outer Courtyard_

_Rhemuth Castle_

_December 13, 1143_

Richenda de Morgan, Duchess of Corwyn, looked up at the tall man who stood beside her at the base of the broad castle stairs. December had turned cold, and he wore a green wool cloak lined with miniver, its hood tossed back to give him a clear view of his surroundings. He was bare-headed in the cold, holding the cap of maintenance loosely in his hand.

"Alaric, you should put that cap on; you don't need to catch a chill," she reminded him.

Morgan rolled his grey eyes heavenward and pulled the cap with its miniver brim down over his golden hair. "Feel better?" he asked.

"Yes, I do. Thank you." Richenda smiled up at him, happy to finally have him healthy and strong again. It had taken most of the last month for him to fully recover from the fever and the longer it took, the more he griped and groused. He had kept Kelric in Rhemuth to act on his behalf as he recovered, and Kelric had spent much of the time at the king's side. She wasn't sure how much of it had been to escape his father.

"Will Kelric be returning to Lendour after Twelfth Night Court?"

Morgan shook his head. "No, I think he should stay here, at least through the winter. Serving Kelson directly has been good experience for him and it will keep our newly minted, young knight sufficiently busy to keep him out of trouble."

"Alaric!" she admonished, smiling up at him. The hood of her cloak slipped backward and she pulled it forward again against the cold. "You're off to visit with Duncan, while I shop in the market?"

"Yes. It's a visit that's long overdue. I've brought proper penance, though." Morgan opened one side of his cloak to reveal a large glass bottle securely lashed to his belt.

Richenda's eyes widened. "That's not Vezaire port, is it?"

"Yes, it is." Morgan let his cloak fall back into place. "And believe me, Kelson didn't release it from the royal cellars without my paying a pretty price for it!"

"Oh dear," she replied with a sigh. "I won't wait up for you tonight."

Morgan reached for her hand, raising it gently to his lips. "May I come find you in the morning?"

"You'll come find me in the afternoon, I'll wager." Richenda laughed lightly, feeling a warm blush rise to colour her cheeks.

_"I will always find you, my love." _Morgan's eyes met hers as he let his kiss linger a moment or two longer before he released her hand.

Richenda's gaze continued to follow him as he strode across the courtyard in the direction of the cathedral. People bowed or curtseyed respectfully as he passed, and he acknowledged each with a nod of his head. She felt her heart swell with pride and love as she watched him go.

Suddenly, she felt a warm swirl of air around her feet. It seemed to rise up around her, stirring a lock of her hair that had escaped from the veil under her hood. She looked up, but saw nothing other than cloudless, blue sky. She had the oddest sensation of flapping wings and thought she smelled the slightest scent of sulphur. It lasted only a moment and was gone. She looked across the courtyard to where Alaric was rapidly disappearing, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She shrugged and pulled her cloak tighter around her, signalling her ladies to join her as she turned toward the market.


End file.
